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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027350">Biscuit Week</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin'>chewsdaychillin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>gbbo au [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, Behind the Scenes, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, They Are Cute Tho, gbbo au !, i attempt to use my film degree for something, jon thinks its enemies to lovers bc martin keeps dropping things near his biscuit, they dont get together week one but watch this space</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:34:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,681</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's week one in the Bake Off tent - twelve new bakers are here to try their hand at impressing Paul and Mary. Who's cream will rise to the top, and who's cookie will crumble? It's biscuit week! </p><p>some prose, some script, and some flashbacks from two perspectives give u what could be a meet cute, what could be competitors to friends... either way... flour is everywhere and these lads r gay</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Sasha James, Martin Blackwood &amp; Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, everyone is friends in the tent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>gbbo au [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>320</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Biscuit Week</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is of course inspired by the wonderful rendherring and her anons so creds to all of u for sending them in - i hope u enjoy! x</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jon decides he isn’t nervous as he steps out of the minivan onto the bright lawn. He hadn’t been too nervous in the auditions and that must have been good for something since he’s here, after all. People were always flapping over trays and time limits on the telly, and he’d decided back in the hotel, very firmly, that he isn’t going to be one of those people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bustle that surrounds him as he blinks back morning Berkshire sun is a lot more than there had been at the auditions though. A woman in a headset is talking to three people at once and using her clipboard to shuffle him and the others over to one of many, many marquees. Surrounding what is essentially a white plastic village is what he can only assume (he isn’t nervous) is the crew. The television crew from the BBC. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a proper movie set. Wires and leads trail the grass like thick vines, bridged with thick plastic that clunks under hundreds of boots and trainers. Crew in all black, more than Jon would have ever considered, crawl over the place like ants. The woman with the headset - who, he now remembers, had introduced herself as the second assistant director - and her lackeys, named the ‘talent liaison’ which they’d all had a chuckle about in the hotel lobby, bustle the bakers down the hill towards it all. Whatever is firmly not nerves is squirming irritatingly in Jon’s gut and soon he is right in the thick of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is plenty of noise. Much more than he would have imagined considering isn’t there supposed to be ‘quiet on set’? And although the crew is mostly white, he’s shocked at the diversity of people. Burly men with every feasible colour of tape strapped to them shout and haul boxes. A gaggle of hipster-types are arguing over bunting. Teenagers in trainers hover for instructions. Through the flaps of one of the tents he can see several people in caps and clean jeans sitting round a collection of screens. And is that - he swears he catches the whip of a bright coloured blazer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they get even closer, another white tent rises up behind the village. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The</span>
  </em>
  <span> White Tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ripple of awed gasps and anxious titters goes through his cohort and okay, fine, Jon will admit it. He is nervous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is going to bake in there. Today. And they are going to judge him for it and show it on telly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘In here,’ another woman in black and a headset beckons, before returning to her walkie talkie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their AD, </span>
  <em>
    <span>was it Helen?</span>
  </em>
  <span>, shows Jon and the others into one of the tents, where it is mercifully quieter, but quite stuffy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are already people in there. Sat about chatting, smoothing their clothes and smiling like they have something unwanted in their stomachs too. They look round as the new group enters, a couple, including a particularly nauseous looking man about Jon’s age, jump out of their skin, giggling to break the tension. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seems a stupid way to break anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Right,’ Helen says, ‘this is your other half.’ She gestures between them. ‘Well, I’ll let you get acquainted. You’ll get called for make up in about fifteen minutes, and then we’ll hand you over to your producers. We’re due to roll up at nine, okay?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all nod and mumble agreement, and Jon is pretty sure he’s not the only one who doesn’t know what half of that means. Though he will allow he looks to be one of the better liars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Great!’ Helen says cheerily, and leaves them to it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the charismatic ones of Jon’s group breaks the ice and crosses the gap first. Tim, his name is, which Jon only remembers because he was reading a distinctive book on architecture and bought them all pints in the hotel bar. He grins and extends a hand, first to an older lady with a tight bun and a firm mouth, then to the lanky goth sat next to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the bakers Jon’s already met follow suit, so he does too and tries not to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>awkward as he shakes hands and exchanges pleasantries and ‘wow, isn’t this amazing!’s with the others. They’re his competitors, of course, and he’s not good with names or... people, sometimes. But he knows these casts can get quite tight-knit and he’s rather lacking in the friend department. Some of them might live in London. Or know something about meringues he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t warm up quickly, but he remembers the names of a couple. Basira - who seems quietly competent and no nonsense, Gerry - which he will remember because it’s not a face anyone is going to forget, as full of rings and bars as it is, Georgie - who has a nice accent but he finds out later went to Oxford too, and Martin - who looks like he’s about to throw up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin has briefly seen the woman who is introduced to him as Sasha around before she perches on a high chair in front of him, behind the camera. The massive bloody camera with a huge black rectangle pointed right at him. She’d seemed very competent, speaking professionally into her radio with her ‘over’s and all. She is smiling now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s not on,’ she promises him, and the tall man with a laden belt who’s supposedly operating the beast takes a step back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They have covered the lens and stuck tape over the red light, so Martin sort of has to believe them. He doesn’t. His palms are sweating and he really has no idea why the nice people at the auditions had thought he’d do well on camera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry,’ Sasha tells him, smiling gently, for all the good it does, ‘we’re just chatting.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s a good liar but Martin is sure he heard them all saying ‘roll up’, and he knows there’s no surprise carnival planned for episode one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay,’ he says anyway, ‘sorry.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re good,’ Sasha laughs. ‘So I’m gonna be your story producer this season, okay? Which basically means I’ll always be the one sat here.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘When we do interviews and stuff - before the challenges and afterwards and at the end of the day - it’ll always be me you’re talking to.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘So you don’t have to look down the lens, okay? In fact, try not to.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay,’ Martin says again, feeling a bit stupid now and looking right down the camera in his attempt not to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You need anything, got questions, you can ask me anything, okay? Promise. I’m your first port of call on your Bake Off journey.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Right,’ he says, nodding to himself.</span>
  <em>
    <span> God, he’s really here this is insane. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>‘So,’ Sasha goes on briskly, ‘how are you feeling right now? Excited to get in the tent?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Um,’ Martin says, looking from her to the camera and realising this is the first question in an interview they might well show on TV. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re good,’ Sasha says, ‘just talk to me, okay?’</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, BY THE DUCK POND, BERKSHIRE - DAY.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is standing in front of a scenic part of the lawn with a little pond behind him. Ducks quack faintly in the background. He wears a plain t-shirt, a clean apron, and looks very pale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>Yeah, I am excited. It’s all a bit mental really, isn’t it? Still can’t quite believe it’s real. The tent and all. Not sure how I managed to con my way into this one but... yeah. Excited. Everyone seems nice. So hopefully it’ll be good! I’m hoping I feel better once I get my hands on some dough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs nervously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, BACK OF THE TENT - DAY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon, an old, smiling man with unnervingly happy eyes. He wears a shirt and tie and a fresh apron. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SIMON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Oh thrillingly excited, isn’t this a lark? What an extra-ordinary rush to be entering the famous tent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, UNDER A WILLOW TREE - DAY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Georgie wears a shirt patterned like a bus seat under her apron. Her hair is twisted up and piled high out of the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>GEORGIE<br/>
</span>
  <span>I’m raring to go. I don’t really get nervous, honestly. Just don’t really feel that fear. I mean, it’s only biscuits, right? </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT. DAY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bakers are all lined up behind their benches. A few look at each other nervously. Simon is away with the fairies. Georgie seems the most relaxed. Gertrude looks ahead with surprising steel in her eyes. Jon resolutely ignores everyone, staring straight ahead with his chin up. Martin’s knuckles are white against the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sue Perkins, Mel Giedroyc, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood enter the tent to announce the challenge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Welcome bakers, to your first signature challenge! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL <br/>
</span>
  <span>To kick off the season, Paul and Mary have asked you all to make your favourite hard, crunchy biscuit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>You can make anything you like, as long as it’s not a cookie or crumble-r.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL<br/>
</span>
  <span>So make it snappy! On your marks...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Get set!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>BOTH<br/>
</span>
  <span>Bake! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is an immediate flurry as everyone descends on their ingredients.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ovens go on, tea-towels are thrown over shoulders, scales balanced tables floured. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is seven and he cannot reach the biscuit jar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is entirely the point, he realises. This is why adults put things on the top shelf. Because ‘you don’t need any more, you can’t subsist on biscuits, Jonathan’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Subsist is a new word Jon has learned today. If it means he has to eat fewer still-soggy boiled vegetables, he would very much like to subsist on biscuits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His grandmother is out, for once, and he doesn’t know where because she doesn’t tell him and he doesn’t ask. He’s not sure he’d really be interested and she is sure it’s none of his business. Maybe the shops. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon pulls a chair towards him and climbs up onto it. He is not tall yet, though he thinks, if he squints his eyes to remember, that his father was tall. So maybe he will be. Or maybe that was just the angle he remembers looking up at. On top of the chair he still can’t reach the shelf. But he can reach the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps onto it and now, if he stretches, fingers circling uselessly through the air until he goes up on his tiptoes, he can reach the biscuit jar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are different types of biscuit in the jar, but they are usually quite plain. His grandmother explains they are for dipping in tea, which is why they generally only have pale round ones and the ones with little cows on. But today they also have garibaldis, which have some flavour and some texture and Jon quite likes the raisins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes three, then puts one back because it seems a bit obvious, and replaces the jar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he starts to bake they are one of the first things he googles. Raisins always make him think of afternoons alone - either in the house, reading vastly improved by the novelty of a snack dropping crumbs on the pages, or out wandering down to the beach or up to the park. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they asked him to make a signature biscuit, there was very little decision to agonise over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. MANCHESTER - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin walks along Canal Street, looking out over the waterfront. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL (V.O.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>Martin works in retail and hospitality, and lives near his family in Greater Manchester.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>EXT. A SMALL PARK - DAY<br/>
</span>
  <span>Martin sits on a park bench, huddled over a notebook. A close up shows a fountain pen flowing easily over the page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL (V.O.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>When not baking, he can be found working on his poetry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The judges and Sue approach Martin's bench. They interrupt just as he is smacking dough about on the tabletop. </span>
</p><p><span>PAUL<br/>
</span>Woah -</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Hi, Martin, bad time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all laugh. </span>
</p><p><span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>Sorry! Get caught up in this part. </p><p>
  <span>He keeps kneading the heels of his palms into the dough as they chat, a bit pink in the face and bare arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of the shot, out of focus, a head pees over at them. As the focus starts to pull, the head ducks back out of view.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARY<br/>
</span>
  <span>What are you making for us today?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>So I’m doing a gingerbread!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The judges oohhh and nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>Yeah! It was always my favourite when I was a kid at Christmas, and I haven’t had it for ages, so I thought I’d try and bring that into, uh- </span>
  <span>(He looks around) </span>
  <span>The British summer time? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs a bit nervously to himself, kneading to keep his hands busy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARY<br/>
</span>
  <span>Well, I can’t wait to try it and taste those winter flavours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Thanks Martin, good luck!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>Thanks!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They move on to the next bench, but Paul calls back:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>PAUL<br/>
</span>
  <span>Careful you don’t overwork that!</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. A LIBRARY, LONDON - DAY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon walks away from the camera down a set of old mahogany shelves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE (V.O.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>Jon is a research assistant and lives in London. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He traces the spines, picking out a heavy volume and pretending to read (badly). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. JON’S FLAT, LONDON. DAY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon measures out flour on a scientific scale, getting the weight exactly right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE (V.O.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>When not at the library, he can be found baking for himself and two cats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A large long haired tabby and a smaller tortoiseshell wind their way around Jon’s legs as he beats a bowl of batter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is shaking out raisins into his bowl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie watches him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MELANIE<br/>
</span>
  <span>(To camera)<br/>
</span>
  <span>I think Jon might be making a more grandma biscuit than Gertrude right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t look up from his raisins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gertrude smacks her dough with a rolling pin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin jumps a bit at the sound and gets flour down himself. He sighs loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks over at him. He says nothing but we zoom in enough to see him shaking his head. </span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic and flapping in the tent as the time runs out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL<br/>
</span>
  <span>(Through an old-timey megaphone)<br/>
</span>
  <span>You’ve got one minute bakers, one minute left on your signature biscuit challenge!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plates of gingerbread, square NICE biscuits, wafers and chocolate covered pale circles are hastily arranged and cleaned on the edge of benches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>And time’s up! Time’s up step away from the bakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon frowns almost quizzically at his plate of garibaldis, like something’s missing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gertrude glares at her biscotti as if daring it to be anything other than perfectly effective.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cloth squeaks as Tim tries to wipe chocolate off the edge of his plate. He grins sheepishly as the camera catches him. Everyone in the audience will immediately forgive him for cheating when they see this smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin has always made gingerbread like this, he says, face falling, teeth chewing into his lip as the judges tell him it isn’t right. </span>
  <span>Paul bends the biscuit back on itself hard and it folds a little into a curve before it breaks. </span>
  <span>This is wrong, they say. It should snap. They should hear it, loud and open and bold like Martin isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s always made it like that - just a little bit softer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he’d get to eat it at Christmas, or rather, the day after Christmas, when it had been sitting above the fireplace for days, it was always a little bit soft, and he had loved it then. It was easier to eat - didn’t cut off in shards on the roof of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was older and missed Christmas and his father was long, long gone and the fireplace just a memory - he had only ever bought it on offer. As a treat, if they had any left at the supermarket, just a day old, still perfectly good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s quieter when it doesn’t snap. He tries to keep the house quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he’d learned a recipe and it had worked, been quiet and soft. Now if he bakes some to take up to his mum he makes sure it isn’t too hard so she doesn’t have to chew too much. </span>
  <span>And that’s not wrong is it? That’s not broken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s just not gingerbread,’ Mary tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I mean it’s more like actual bread that’s gone stale,’ Paul adds with a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay,’ Martin says, swallowing so his throat doesn’t rasp and give him away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thank you,’ they all tell him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thank you,’ he says. </span>
  <em>
    <span>For telling me this is wrong. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When they leave he tries some and it isn’t good like he thought it was before. Now when he nibbles at it the way it gives way under his tongue without a sound feels pathetic. It doesn’t taste at all like Christmas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon can live with being told it’s a little bit of a boring choice, he decides, after his critique goes surprisingly well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not normally good with criticism. Makes him snappy and he hates being told things he already knows. Raisins could have been spread more evenly - he knows that and the anticipation of someone else telling it to him like he doesn’t know, like he’s stupid... he knows it’s a failing but it gets his hackles up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s on TV, after all, for something he’s supposed to be good at. Good enough at to have qualified to be here. The humiliation of being told otherwise is just not something he’s willing to face the possibility of without some sort of defensive shell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So being told that, though it’s very OAP as a choice, his biscuits are </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>had not been something he’d been very prepared for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘These are really smashing,’ Mary had told him, ‘I haven’t had a good one of these in years.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh,’ he’d said, stupidly, finding he was almost smiling. ‘Thank you.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of people had said well done, he remembers. When they wrap and head back up to the house Tim and Georgie give him thumbs up, and Oliver, who he hasn’t even really spoken to yet but has an easy charisma to him that’s perfect for TV, nicks a biscuit off Jon’s tray to validate his ‘nice job’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s very weird. This is a competition after all, and They can’t have anything to gain tactically from being this nice, can they? Especially with the cameras off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They must just be nice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had thought Martin seemed nice, but he doesn’t say anything. He trails at the back all the way to lunch, through the line at the makeshift cafeteria, and back to the tent again an hour later. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Martin whips the gingham off his little heap of ingredients it clarifies nothing. He looks round and everyone else - they are all reading the instructions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, God. He knew the technical was going to be a nightmare. He pulls his own laminate sheet towards him and reads. </span>
  <span>The title is in French or something. And he has no idea what these are. Shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instructions are sparse and he’s a fast reader, so soon he is yet again scanning the group to see who is already starting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy is weighing eggs. Oh, God, he never weighs his eggs. Should he weigh his eggs? Jon is preheating his oven. Oh okay, that’s probably a good first step. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instructions don’t give a temperature so Martin sticks it on what he thinks is the equivalent of gas mark five and hopes that’ll do it. Right. He can feel panic rising in his chest like little sharp pains but it’s fine, it’s fine. He closes his eyes, hands solid on the counter. You’re in a real place. It’s just biscuits. Breathe. It’s fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes there’s a camera in his face and he jumps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh, sorry,’ he says on reflex. ‘Didn’t see you.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha is standing behind the camera. She’s been wandering round all day, talking to the people whose stories she is producing. Whatever that means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Okay?’ She asks him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if she wants him to cry. No, she wouldn’t. She seems so nice. He trusts her. But then again, she’s a reality TV producer afterall. She’d probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> it if he cried. He’s not going to cry over biscuits yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve never heard of this,’ he admits to the camera. ‘It sounds like it’s French? Which makes me think it’s supposed to snap.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, that’s actually probably quite clever of him. He blows out another breath, looking around, looking at the ingredients. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Not a lot of butter,’ he reads again, ‘so, yeah I think they should be hard and small. Like... to have with coffee or something?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim, who has the bench in front of him, turns around and gives him the thumbs up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Is it?’ Martin asks him eagerly, immediately blowing his cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera operator pulls back to get them both in frame, and Tim nods conspiratorially, a finger to his lips and a wink to the lens. He’s very good at this, Martin thinks - the whole British public will probably fancy him when this airs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods back, grinning. He bends down and whacks his oven up to gas mark seven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘If they’re meant to snap the oven needs to be really hot,’ he explains to the camera, in case it’s on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha gives him an okay sign. He might well still get through this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Bakers, you have ten minutes left on your tuile challenge!’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit shit shit shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The timer is beeping at him and Mel is telling him his biscuits really need to come out of the oven when they’ve only just gone in. He will never get them cool. They're supposed to be shaped and cool off. He should have moved faster, he shouldn’t have wasted that time at the start, he probably over beat them, he always over beats these things, he can never get anything right, he - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He doesn't have time to breathe but he tells himself a quick, firm </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> before dropping down to look through the oven door at his biscuits. They're still browning. He doesn’t have time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks to his right. Jon is shaping his biscuits around wooden spoons, curling them in on themselves. Most people seem to be doing it over rolling pins but Jon doesn’t look up much. Martin has noticed that. He moves very confidently like he knows his way is the best way. It’s a bit arrogant and makes sense with the way he talks but Martin envies it. And envies him his finished bloody biscuits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy is still waiting to take things out. So is Simon. Which would be reassuring only - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Five minutes!’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Shit shit shit,’ Martin panics out loud this time, not a thought for language. It’s now or never. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the tray out of the oven and it clatters loudly on his cooling rack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Shit, shit-‘ the tuiles burn his fingers a bit as he picks them off and lays them over a rolling pin. (He thinks Jon is probably right but majority rules and he doesn’t have time or delicate enough hands for tight curls.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Alright?’ Tim asks him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No,’ Martin groans, flapping his oven gloves over his hot biscuits. ‘But it’s fine!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Need a hand?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No, no, don’t worry.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Sure?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shakes his head. He’s already red from heat and it’s so embarrassing to be caught like this and need help and Tim is so sweet for offering. ‘Nothing to be done,’ he insists. His voice comes out weaker than he meant it to, dragging against his dry throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he’s going to cry on TV over biscuits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sue calls time’s up and he very nearly does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Placing his sad, unfurling tuiles behind that picture of his own smiling and ruddy face makes his toes curl and eyes scrunch up as he cringes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to him are Jon and Georgie’s - perfectly crisp and smelling amazing. There are some down the table that look a little worse for wear, sure. But he is the worst. He knows he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim pats his knee as the judges walk in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ends up second from last. But he knows he is the worst so it doesn’t make him feel much better. He’s come all this way and it was a waste of time, waste of money, waste of a spot here. Left his mum all alone for the weekend and for what? To be this terrible. Someone else could have been here and baked some decent biscuits and he could have picked up a shift somewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks surprised to win, though Martin doesn’t know why. Mary praises his tight curls as skilful and showing a knowledge of international baking. It’s hard not to feel that personally when you have no knowledge of international baking, not really, not tuiles clearly, but Martin can’t feel resentful. Only disappointed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon goes very red as Daisy claps him on the shoulder and Tim offers him a handshake (‘I’m doing my own this season, Stoker Shakes, they’re a level above Paul’s actually’.) Martin is happy for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes he could be that good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, BY THE GARDEN STEPS - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks a bit dazed as he tries to find words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>JON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Yes, well, obviously I’m happy. Very happy. I never expected to, uh. To win something so soon. Georgie’s were very good so I thought... well, it’s good to be taken seriously. I hope I’ve proven I do deserve to be here, anyway. In case anyone was doubting it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SASHA (O.S.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>Was anyone doubting it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>JON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Well. I don’t know. I’m glad. anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles rather shyly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, BY THE DUCK POND - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shuffles about a bit, avoiding looking in the camera, or indeed any fixed point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN. <br/>
</span>
  <span>Um. Yeah. I mean, I’m obviously quite disappointed. I’m a bit worried going in to tomorrow. I’d - </span>
  <span>(He cuts off, breathes and tries again) </span>
  <span>I’d really like to stay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL, BACK OF THE TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon shrugs dramatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SIMON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Well, it’s only some biscuits in the grand scheme of things. I’m sure mine were perfectly dreadful, but in the end they’ll go in the bin same as most people’s. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning Martin decides he isn’t leaving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s sure he’s given up the most to be here, actually, is shirking so much responsibility being here, and he can’t go the first week. He just can’t. So he decides he won’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that isn’t enough, but he decides it will be, and he tells Sasha so very firmly that morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m really going to pull my finger out today,’ he insists, ‘I don’t want to go home and I don’t want people to think I can’t bake because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I really can. When I’m not flapping,’ he adds, because that sounds a bit arrogant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In another tent, he knows the judges are telling Mel and Sue that he needs to pull it out of the bag to stay. He’s thought about it all night, the maths of it, the placings. When he doesn’t get too emotional (hard to do) he reckons Simon might just be doing worse than he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he walks into the tent he tries to stride, letting the wind of spite under his wings power him to the back. He doesn’t fumble with his apron strings and sets his hands firmly on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Morning,’ Tim grins, ‘you look fired up. Am I assuming the back bench buds are back in business?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin smiles, actually believing, through sheer force of will and repetition, that he might be. ‘Absolutely.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Wicked,’ is Tim’s response. Then he turns - ‘hear that, Jon? We don’t have to worry about Martin. The back bench boys won’t be breaking up.’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin looks. Jon looks wide-eyed that Tim is talking to him, snapped out of whatever he was thinking about as always. He also looks a little bit skeptical as he ties his apron in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Good luck,’ is all he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well it’s fair enough, Martin reasons, that people won’t expect him to do well after yesterday. But spite is a powerful motivator. Actually, today, as much as it crushes him that someone who is as good at this as Jon is thinks he doesn’t have a chance, it only makes him more driven to prove that he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is going to make the best bloody shortbread this tent has ever seen and Jon is going to watch him do it and it’ll wipe that patronising look right off his talented cute face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>... Oh, God. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon is mixing biscuit dough by hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SIMON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Well, obviously, my biscuits didn’t go down so well yesterday. I am feeling that a vast amount depends on this showstopper challenge going well for me. </span>
  <span>(He sounds unbothered) </span>
  <span>I could well be going home if not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>ANNABELLE (O.S.)<br/>
</span>
  <span>Who do you think is your biggest competition to stay? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SIMON<br/>
</span>
  <span>Oh, that strapping young lad at the back I think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera pans and zooms in on Martin. He drops a lemon from his armful and scrambles to pick it up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - LATER</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is panic-whisking a pan of lemon curd. It is burning. Sue appears over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>That is a rather... caramelised smelling lemon curd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin groans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>It’s burned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Okay, can we save it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head and puts the pan to the side. His workspace is a mess of pots, pans, and flour. </span>
  <span>He runs - grabs a clean pan from the back and begins cracking eggs into it. </span>
</p><p><span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>Oh, God... </p><p><span>SUE<br/>
</span>It’s okay, you’ve got time.</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>This is so wasteful, sorry - has anyone got any more lemons? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>I’ll get some more lemons!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pats him on the back and darts off. Martin looks anxiously at his stopwatch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>Time check?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim calls over his shoulder - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>TIM<br/>
</span>
  <span>Half an hour! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MARTIN<br/>
</span>
  <span>[BEEP], does anyone have any lemons?! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Sue - rummaging through a fruit basket and filling her arms with lemons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Basira, stirring her jam as she watches this malarky go down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>BASIRA <br/>
</span>
  <span>(To camera)<br/>
</span>
  <span>Your licence fee is paying for this. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon knows building a house of cards out of honey-flavoured snaps is not the most creative idea in the tent. He wouldn’t say he </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>creative - isn’t all baking creative? But he’s not one for... art, really. In uni he was a bit disdainful of it really, though his eyes are not quite as stubbornly glued shut as they were then. He had decided on it because it will look impressive if he can just build it right, without needing a whole backstory like </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>people’s... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Tim’s is a work of gothic architecture, somehow. Georgie has made a cat with brandy snap paws. He’s not sure what Gerry’s is supposed to be but there’s about four different types of biscuits there. Hmm. This maybe isn’t as impressive as he thought.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fine. It’s fine. At least he isn’t in a flap yet. Unlike </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s half an hour left - he has time. He has time to build this slowly. Slowly, slowly he holds two biscuits together in an upside down v, lowering it gingerly onto the not-quite-flat biscuit surface they’re supposed to balance on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another lemon rolls across the floor and hits his shoe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Sorry!’ Comes the flustered voice that is fast becoming familiar to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s fine,’ he says, ignoring Martin and trying to telepathically force his biscuits to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop shaking damnit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then something knocks his foot and his balance shifts a second. His biscuits don’t snap but they do clatter as they hit the bench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Christ,’ he grits out, taking a wobbly half-step back to avoid sending his whole tower down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It shudders a little as Martin stands up, lemon in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘There, sorry, I’ll be out of your hair,’ he promises with a small smile. His own hair has flour in it, somehow. There is a bit of lemon zest clinging to his pink cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is furious at it. At him, not the zest. That would be properly - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs darkly, turning back to his bake, and is going to say again that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and can he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>get on with it </span>
  </em>
  <span>but Martin comes closer. Again. Closer again with a small gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh, God, sorry Jon, I didn’t make you knock it did I?’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘No, it’s- well, yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you did, but if you just-‘ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Here,’ Martin says, in what is probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. Then he puts down his lemon (his sixth or seventh lemon) and instead picks up the fallen biscuits. ‘Let me fix it.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands are so... not shaky. Not at all even though he’s spent the past two hours faffing about the panicking. They’re steady, just as firm and strong as they had been kneading into that gingerbread dough yesterday. They’re so steady actually, as he lines up with the top of the tower, that it makes Jon aware of how much his are </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>trembling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there’s a camera in front of him. In front of Martin, he should say, probably close up on his tongue poking out as he concentrates on fixing someone else’s fuck up. Jon clenches his fingers together behind his back so he won’t get caught shaking out shakes on the telly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems to go on forever, him awkwardly hovering there behind Martin, half cringing, half in awe that this- this... <em>flapper</em> can be so calm and steady and that anyone can be so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s seen it when he’s watched the show, obviously, people helping. But it feels insane now. There’s a time limit and Martin’s going to burn </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>pot of curd if he doesn’t watch it. He must know he’s in the bottom of the rankings and yet he’s still here. Why? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jon insists as Martin straightens the biscuits and tries again. Then, realising that sounded snappy, he adds ‘please.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve got it, just one sec- there!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time the snaps balance perfectly on top of the tower. Martin steps back from it, looking almost pleased with himself, Jon would say, if he wasn’t still awkwardly sorry about the whole affair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>’You didn’t have to-’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Least I could do.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand there for a second with only the biscuits between them. And the camera, the camera operator, the boom, two sound techs, Annabelle and her clipboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Um,’ Jon says, and he knows he should say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, not least because he’s on TV, but then something beeps and Tim’s calling over - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Martin, timer!’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Martin's going a bit red again and restarting his stressing. He ducks his head a bit as he half-jogs off and </span>
  <em>
    <span>again </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jon is looking at the flour in his fringe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Thanks!’ He calls over to the other bench, and he thinks Martin heard him because he gets a smile thrown his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only when he turns back to the biscuits and sees the camera still on him that he remembers everything else he has to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. Piping. Oh, Christ. He gives his sweating hands a good shake out before reaching for the bag. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Martin’s biscuit show-stopper is shaped like a little house. He knows this isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>the </span>
  </em>
  <span>most inventive shape he could have done - Simon seems to be attempting some kind of roller-coaster for God’s sake - but he thinks a good house well made will carry the flavour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shortbread is a homey biscuit, he’d reasoned when he’d planned it, crammed in by the surrounding mess in his tiny kitchenette. It could be a bungalow, or a cottage, or a little farmhouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s always thought that would be nice - to have all his own walls that didn’t touch anyone else’s. To have a ceiling that wasn’t someone else’s floor and a roof that only faced the sky. It could have a garden and a winding path up it. A reading nook, maybe, a bath. Window boxes. A decent sized kitchen. All held together with yellow curd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘This is supposed to be an Aga,’ he’s explaining to Mary now, pointing into the room he’s calling the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all seems very chintzy and childish, but she’s smiling. ‘Very sweet.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>’It’s adorable,’ Mel agrees. ‘I do dread it burning though.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone laughs. This is going well! Somehow this is going well! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Paul snaps the shortbread and pronounces the flavour mild (</span>
  <em>
    <span>not enough bloody lemons after all that fuss, Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>) but the texture perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Nothing Martin’s ever done has been </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect </span>
  </em>
  <span>before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The judges say thank you and move on and the camera stays to get angles on their plates. Sasha tells Martin he can relax now. But he cannot for the life of him stop the smile creeping back onto his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Annabelle calls a wrap on the showstopper (she actually says that’s a wrap, which gets the cast very excited), they all start to wander around trying biscuits and offering trays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That was great!’ Tim tells him, sticking his hand into the house. ‘Oh, fuck yeah,’ he practically moans through a mouthful of shortbread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie and Gerry both say it’s good as well, and Martin is actually finding it easy to push away the part that says they’re wrong, they must be wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He offers some to Sasha with what he hopes is an easily-contented smile and not a desperately grateful one. He’s still a bit worried she’s going to try and make him cry later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Cheers,’ she grins, ‘oh this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> you know. I’m not really supposed to be biased but-‘ she lowers her voice ‘this is just what I needed right now.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s this that gives him the little bump he needs to offer the tray across the aisle to his other back bench buddy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds the whole tray out to Jon in case he’s weird with germs, or doesn’t like edge bits, or doesn’t like curd. Whatever. The little cottage he’d built is missing half its roof (thanks to Tim) and the front door (Sasha’s doing), so it’s looking a little sorry for itself, crumbling just a bit. But it’ll still be good. Hopefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half a shortbread house thrust suddenly into his space makes Jon jump a bit, and Martin instinctively pulls the tray back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Sorry,’ he says, but he’s aware very consciously from the sweet ache in his cheek that he’s still smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s bench is the tidiest of all the back lot’s so far, and it seems like Martin's biscuits are the only thing that have broken him from a very focused cleaning spree. The sudden motion makes him blink back into the tent and stand up straighter, tucking hair that’s come loose back behind his ears. Fuck’s sake, he really is cute. And somehow that doesn’t seem so terrible now that the biscuits have turned out to not be an embarrassment. Cameras being off helps a bit too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own tray is the only thing left out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I was just going to ask if you-‘ Martin starts, at the same time as Jon says-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh, yes, go ahead, please-‘ and picks up his own tray. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand for a moment, looking at each other, holding out biscuits with both hands occupied and no way of taking anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Ah,’ Jon says awkwardly, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to solve an equation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin tries not to laugh at him. ‘Can I use your clean table or do you want to use my messy one?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh, right,’ Jon looks around, ‘uh, here’s fine-‘ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his tray back down and slides it further down the bench to give Martin space. Okay, so it’s a tiny thing, but Martin's suddenly sorry his trays got flour and crumbs all over the bottom of it. It’s going to mess up Jon's clean bench. He half expects Jon to bitch about it when he puts it down. But instead, the fact Jon doesn’t bitch about it, doesn’t even do one of his disparaging looks, only makes Martin somehow more sorry and more giddy with smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tray clatters a bit as he puts it down. Since when were his hands slipping? Maybe it's the heat. Tent in summer and all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘It’s honey-flavoured,’ Jon tells him, gesturing to his creation. ‘They didn’t love it, but I think it’s alright. I disagree with the comment about the piping but-‘ he shrugs, mouth setting into a familiar hard line. He doesn’t jut his chin though, keeps looking down at the bakes rather. ‘I suppose I’m not the judge.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m sure it’s great,’ Martin reassures him. He really is, everything else Jon's made this week has been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out to take one, realising as he does so that Jon’s tray is loaded - the tower is practically untouched. He’s going to be the first one to try it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, here goes nothing. </span>
</p><p><span>His eyes close instinctively as he takes a bite.</span> <span>It’s only after he’s hummed around the delicate blend of honey and what he thinks is almond and orange in the icing, felt the snap, dug the morsels out of his molars, and opened his eyes again, nodding, that he realises how intently Jon is watching his reaction. </span></p><p>
  <span>He swallows a bit nervously. ’Yeah,’ he breathes, still nodding, ‘this is- wow, amazing. Is that almond? It’s beautiful, really, um. Delicious.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Really?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Yeah! Yeah, really.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Oh,’ Jon says, and the corner of his mouth only twitches, but his eyes are bright. ‘I’m glad. Can I try yours?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Please.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon peers over into the little shortbread house, his hands hovering nervously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You can take whatever,’ Martin says, unsure really if he’s reassuring or just anxiously filling silence.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Right.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That’s a little Aga. And that’s supposed to be a bookshelf.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon half smiles as he picks the Aga up and turns it over in the light. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘it’s, uh. Very quaint.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s not sure if that’s a compliment, but he thinks he’s at least 60% sure Jon means it as one, so he still goes a bit pink as he watches Jon take the top off his oven and bite into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘This is good, the, uh, the texture is really-‘ he concentrates, smacking it off the roof of his mouth with his tongue. It’ll melt there, Martin knows, and that’s where the lemon will kick in. Not too sharp. Sweet. ‘Really good,’ Jon finishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Perfect,’ Martin grins, ‘according to Paul.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Mmm,’ Jon agrees. ‘Well. I suppose he knows what he’s talking about.’ He picks up his cloth again. ‘Most of the time.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s probably not meant as a dig. Surely it’s not after he said all that nice stuff anyway? He’s just mad about the piping comment. Still, Martin tries not to let that buckle his little shred of optimism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I reckon so,’ he says decisively, and Jon’s small smile isn’t a cruel one or a quirk to get rid of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He just hopes it will be enough. To put him ahead of being the worst in the room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>INT. BAKE OFF TENT - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bakers sit anxiously on a long line to stools, waiting to hear the judges’ decisions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Melanie’s knee bounces up and down like a rattling ping-pong ball. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks up and down the line like he’s doing some very intense maths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin blows out an unsteady breath towards the ceiling. Tim is holding his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon stares cheerily ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mary, Paul, Mel and Sue reenter the tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL <br/>
</span>
  <span>Right, well, I’ve got the lovely job this week of giving out our star baker award! This week’s star baker impressed in the technical, but they really took home the cream with their brandy snap cat! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few happy <em>oh’s</em> go down the line. Georgie beams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MEL<br/>
</span>
  <span>Congratulations Georgie!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone claps. Melanie and Basira give her side hugs.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>SUE<br/>
</span>
  <span>Which means I’ve got the horrible job of revealing which of you will be leaving the tent this week. It’s so sad to be letting go of someone so soon, when you’ve already become a baking family. But I have to reveal that the person leaving us this week is - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera slowly zooms on Simon, serene and blank, and Martin who has his eyes fixed hard on a point below the camera. His fingers flex tight around Tim's hand. </span>
</p><p><span>SUE<br/>
</span>Simon. </p><p>
  <span>An <em>awww</em> down the line - Oliver and Gertrude move first to shake Simon’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera stays with Martin for a second: he closes his eyes with a shuddering breath of relief, opening them only when Tim bumps his shoulder. Then he looks down the line, face falling with guilt, and gets up to join what is fast becoming a group hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We watch as he awkwardly mouths what looks like ‘sorry’ to a completely unbothered Simon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon watches this from Georgie’s side of the frame, where all the congratulating from the judges is still going on. He seems to be smiling, almost imperceptibly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>EXT. CONFESSIONAL - BY THE GARDEN STEPS - DAY</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon clasps his hands together thoughtfully as he reflects on the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>JON<br/>
</span>
  <span>It’s a shame. Simon seemed like a very charismatic, uh, addition to the tent, but really I think... judging off the showstopper and after trying everyone’s bakes... it’s sad of course but - </span>
  <span>(He sways a little side to side) </span>
  <span>I do think Martin probably has a bit more to offer. To the competition. So.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Liked by @mk_blackwood</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every season of #gbbo needs a lovable grandad and if u think this season it’s Simon I HAVE to laugh........ Lmao its @jsims87 </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My licence fee is paying for all of Martin #gbbo’s lemons? I’m not even mad ♥️</span>
</p><p>‘Lives with his two cats’ ok petition to get jon a girlfriend?! <br/>
<span>               —&gt; <em>Replied</em>: or boyfriend ! </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Liked by @jsims87 </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Basira’s biscuits looked good but she’s literally a tra- a traff- I can’t say it a traffic warden 🤢</span>
</p><p>Omg martins shortbread ... I’m drooling bbc let me eat my tv when </p><p>
  <span>Who else cried when Martin nearly went home........ I can’t lose this sweet boy so soon! </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>paul hollywood is my slaughter avatar origin story (gun emoji) (knife emoji) </p><p>hope u enjoyed ! like comment subscribe and all that &lt;3</p><p>i'm not necesarily planning to write loads more of this, at least not as a full multichap, but i am currently taking fic commissions and i have a document full of ideas and renda's anons screencapped, so if the people want more u can look at my commission post<br/><a href="https://babyyodablackwood.tumblr.com/post/630528010471211008/ao3-fic-commissions-kofi-i-am-offering-proof">here</a> ! there's also a link to my k*fi on there. ao3 doesn't like ebegging apparently but it's there if you're interested in helping me out x<br/> </p><p>thank yewww x</p></blockquote></div></div>
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